


Something Darker

by scienceblues



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: (the violence tag is for monster hunting), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst with a Happy Ending, Demon Hanzo Shimada, Eichenwalde (Overwatch), Getting Together, Ghoul Ana Amari, Junkenstein Setting, M/M, Major Character Injury, Vampires, Van Helsing McCree, Witch of the Wilds Mercy, deadeye as magic, mild body horror, mild horror elements, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 17:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15711624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scienceblues/pseuds/scienceblues
Summary: "You help keep me safe from what we’re huntin’, I’ll keep other hunters and any humans we come across off your back.” McCree drops his voice low, looking painfully sincere as he makes his final pitch. “There are few places more welcoming than a town where you’ve just spared any more people from bein’ stolen away into the night. Nobody’ll be lookin’ close enough at you to tell you aren’t human.”Hanzo doesn’t allow himself to hesitate before he accepts.





	Something Darker

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [2018 McHanzo Reverse Bang](http://mcbigbang.tumblr.com/)! There's lots of awesome art and fic that will be posted from today until August 31st, so keep an eye out for those.
> 
> This was my first RB as well as the longest fic I've written in years by a mile, and I had a great time participating. My partner [Livvi](http://livvi-tama.tumblr.com/) did a great job with the gorgeous art that inspired this, and I hope I did it justice! The art can be found [here](http://mcbigbang.tumblr.com/post/177135371617/), but I've also linked it in the relevant part of the fic if you want to avoid spoilers til then :)
> 
> Beta'ed by [SadinaSaphrite](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadinaSaphrite/pseuds/SadinaSaphrite)!

“You’re early.”

“ _You’re_ late,” Hanzo corrects, sitting intently upright at the table of the private room he’s been waiting silently in for the past three hours. Even for someone whose occupation requires that he be perfectly capable of doing so, it was an irritating test of his patience when the letter he received had specified a time. He’d almost been bored enough to try the ale, as terrible as alcohol always tastes to him.

The man at the door grins as he secures the latch behind him, seemingly unconcerned at the biting response. “Suppose I knew that wouldn’t work. My last job took longer to wrap up than I thought it would. I rode right over, but a horse can only go so fast.”

Judging by his windswept appearance and the strong odor of horse and leather rolling off of him, the man seems to be speaking truthfully. If Hanzo leaves now, it would guarantee his evening to be a waste. There’s still enough of a chance that the man can obtain what he needs that, against his better judgment, Hanzo waits while the man casts off the long studded coat and slings it over the back of the chair opposite his.

With the coat off, Hanzo sees one of his arms is made of metal with a vibrant orange core running the length of it. Clearly magic, and powerful, too, given how smoothly the joints move.

Hanzo can only hope this means the man will have access to the kind of magic he seeks. If he was able to obtain a prosthesis as advanced as this, it bodes well for his ability to fulfill Hanzo’s request.

“Jesse McCree, at your service,” the man introduces himself, holding out a hand. Hanzo accepts it, relaxing minutely when McCree lets go after a brief shake rather than using the grip to haul him into stabbing distance — at least the name matches the initials from the letter, although that doesn’t preclude the meeting being a set-up in the first place. McCree’s gaze is openly assessing as he looks him over. “You’re Hanzo, I assume?”

At Hanzo’s unimpressed look, McCree shrugs and finally takes a seat. “You could’ve been an emissary, who knows. Especially considerin’ the nature of the letter you sent.” McCree peers intently into his face, eyes glazing over. Only when he clutches his hat to his head and jolts backwards in his seat does Hanzo realize what he’s looking for.

Hanzo smirks at the reaction, letting no trace of his annoyance show beyond allowing his tusks to bleed through the human facade, enlarging until they take up slightly too much space in his human mouth and then receding once more. “You could have asked what I am, if you were curious.”

To his surprise, McCree nods amiably along. “Apologies — just couldn’t put a finger on it. Haven’t seen one of your kind in a few years.” He relaxes back into his previous slouch impressively fast for a human who’s just looked into his true face.

Part of the reason he so rarely enters human settlements is due to the effort involved, but also out of paranoia that a trained eye could easily determine his true nature. It’s a chilling relief to have confirmation that his caution is warranted.

“Kind of an unusual request.”

“Not so unusual. There must be scores of people looking for this kind of service from you.”

McCree lets out a short, sharp laugh. “Not so much. My magical inclinations tend to be pretty specific. I’m just someone who had the same problem, once upon a time. If it’s avoidin’ magical means of detection, I can help with that. You want anythin’ more, that’s a bit beyond my capabilities.”

“Avoiding magical detection and tracking is sufficient. Can you do it tonight?”

“Well, yeah, but it’s a bit of an unconventional solution.” McCree reaches under the collar of his shirt; the placement is wrong for a weapon, but Hanzo tenses nonetheless until he sees the gleam of brass in the lamplight. The amulet looks like a small, simple locket at first glance, but when Hanzo shifts just enough to look at it with his true sight, the golden aura emanating from it is bright enough he has to clench his eyes shut for a moment to recover.

The protection charm is unconventional in its strength, but otherwise one of the more standard means of hiding oneself from interested parties. It’s more than acceptable for his needs, although he didn’t anticipate a solution that would cut as far into his ill-gotten funds as this surely will. “What price are you asking for it?”

There’s a brief pause, and then McCree leans forward in his seat again, sounding curious. “Why’s a capable fella like yourself in need of a bauble like this, anyway? Would’ve thought you could handle anything that tries to come after you, since you’re one of the things that go bump in the night.”

With an elegant shrug, Hanzo refuses to rise to the bait. “Recently, I refused an offer of employment from an interested party. As it turns out, the party was more interested than I anticipated. They pose no actual threat to me, but their repeated attempts at persuasion have become tiresome. I would prefer to avoid the issue entirely by avoiding _them_ entirely.”

“Avoiding them makes sense, especially if it’s the folks I think you’re talkin’ about,” McCree muses, rubbing at his chest absentmindedly. “As for price: this one isn’t for sale. The alchemist who bound the spell to the metal is awful fond of me, see, so she bound it specifically to me. But what I can do is add you to its protection.” He grins. “Of course, that means you’d have to travel with me. Turns out I’ve recently found myself in need of a partner. It’s an easy fix for both of us.”

“What could you possibly need the help of a demon for—”

“I travel a lot. Take care of any...problems the towns I pass through have.”

At that, Hanzo’s eyes flare brightly enough through the weak illusion he wears that he drops it entirely. “You’re a hunter,” he growls.

McCree shrugs, apparently unconcerned by the bristling demon in front of him. “Your letter said you were lookin’ for a quick solution. This is about as quick as it gets. A drop of blood, you stick within the radius of effect, and you’re untraceable. Nobody’ll have a chance of findin’ you until you put half a city between you and me.”

Even with the danger inherent in traveling with a hunter, the offer is tempting enough that Hanzo wavers. Worse is the fact that McCree seems to notice it and presses his advantage.

“From what I hear, you’re already in the habit of collectin’ bounties. This is basically the same work, except you’re not just killin’ for the highest bidder — it’s goin’ after things that have already proven themselves a menace. This job does a lot of good for a lot of people; I’ll be the first to attest to that.”

The tattoo over his pectoral stings at the words, the remnant of a deep ache dulled with time. It’s enough to make Hanzo bite his tongue on his outright rejection, recalling the years he’s spent isolated out of equal parts necessity and shame. If this works out…

He has a long time to live with himself, otherwise.  “Can you ensure my safety from any other hunters we may encounter in the course of your work?” Hanzo asks in a rush, before he can reconsider the impulse.

“Hey, when I said I wanted you as a partner, I meant it. You help keep me safe from what we’re huntin’, I’ll keep other hunters and any humans we come across off your back.” McCree drops his voice low, looking painfully sincere as he makes his final pitch. “There are few places more welcoming than a town where you’ve just spared any more people from bein’ stolen away into the night. Nobody’ll be lookin’ close enough at you to tell you aren’t human.”

Hanzo doesn’t allow himself to hesitate before he accepts.

His skin burns under the tattoo as a drop of his blood joins the hunter’s in the center of the charm.

 

* * *

 

“Two rooms, if you’ve got ‘em available,” McCree cheerfully requests of the bartender, flipping a few coins onto the bar’s scarred wooden surface. “And we’ll be right back down for two plates of whatever your kitchen’s serving.”

Keys quickly appear in McCree’s hand, but rather than immediately heading upstairs, he heads back towards Hanzo, who hangs back in the shadows near the entrance. Hanzo slips his pack off his shoulder before McCree even holds out his prosthetic hand, depositing it into the metal grip with the ease of practice. While McCree clumps up the stairs to drop off their personal effects and valuable hunting supplies in the security of a locked room — far from any pickpockets grifting the downstairs, and even safer after the minor wards McCree can place away from prying eyes — Hanzo heads for the back of the tavern, empty this late in the evening. The bright lamplight flanking the bar fades with distance, leaving Hanzo free to choose from one of the more dimly-lit tables situated near the enormous copper brewing vats.

No one bothers to approach a hooded figure sitting alone in a darkened corner, just as Hanzo prefers. It’s easier to maintain a human appearance with a hood up, and easier to fool most curious glances when all he needs is the barest suggestion of a human face before any observer’s eyes fill in what they expect to see.

Hanzo doesn’t mind the lack of interruption, especially since it allows him to observe each of the other patrons scattered around the room, using his true sight to determine that there aren’t any threats present. He’s almost finished cataloguing everyone when his field of view is suddenly obscured by McCree reappearing and depositing two plates on the table.

After one last check on the final few patrons — merely human, and clear of any magical or supernatural influences — Hanzo allows his sight to slip back to normal and absentmindedly rips his portion of chicken into further pieces to share, since he has no real need for sustenance. As he reaches out to deposit it on McCree’s plate, however, he notices that McCree has not started in on his food yet.

“Tired?” Hanzo asks, casting a sharp glance over McCree, who’s hunched over his plate with both elbows resting on the checked cloth that runs the length of the table. “You weren’t hurt earlier, were you?”

It wouldn’t surprise him if he was — even Hanzo’s unnatural reflexes weren’t enough to spare him the few shallow cuts he received, and McCree’s neglected to mention injuries before. But McCree shakes his head in response, then offers a small, tight smile as he starts picking at his food.

“I haven’t had to spend that long on trackin’ something down in quite a while, is all. I’m looking forward to restin’ up after that.” They both eat in silence for a few more minutes before McCree looks up again, seeming more alert as he scrutinizes Hanzo. “You goin’ to be alright if we stick around town for another day or two? I’m awful low on bullets, and there’s a few other supplies I’d like to grab while we’re able. Shouldn’t be too much to deal with, but you could stay here if you’d rather.”

Hanzo thinks it over while he chews on the tasteless food. McCree’s right — it was a draining hunt, even with as little actual fighting there was until the very end of the chase. But Hanzo’s sense of pride stings at the thought of being stuck indoors for an entire day due to one admittedly clever harpy’s depletion of their supplies. As long as he keep his hood up to minimize the amount of concentration the disguise will require, he should be able to handle it. The oblivious inn patrons around the tavern prove that.

With a start, Hanzo realizes he’s been crunching absentmindedly on the bone of the chicken leg in his hand, and abruptly stops before the other diners become a little less oblivious to what kind of creature is sitting in the same room as they are. To his credit, McCree doesn’t look the least bit bothered by it. Swallowing hurriedly, Hanzo replies, “I will manage. I need some supplies, as well.”

McCree nods. “Figured you might. Write me up a list by morning, and I can do the talkin’, if you’d prefer.”

Hanzo returns the nod gratefully, glad to be spared the minor inconvenience. As loathe as he initially was to allow someone to take over the aspects of life on the road that require the occasional stop into town, he found out a few short weeks into their acquaintance that there were a few upsides to having a traveling partner who doesn’t rely so critically on passing through largely unnoticed.

Besides, he’s found to his surprise that he enjoys McCree’s company. Not just more than he thought he’d tolerate traveling with a human — it’s a surprisingly even partnership, rather than the one-sided farce he was wary it might turn into, a hunter thinking he’d leashed a pet demon.

The door to the tavern opens, letting in a loud crowd of day laborers that flock to the bar. Hanzo nudges McCree’s leg with his under the table. “Almost finished?” he asks, tugging reflexively on the hood to ensure his face is fully covered.

“Just a minute.” A few more hurried bites, and then McCree stands from his seat, holding out an arm so Hanzo can go in front of him. Nobody glances in their direction as they weave their way between the tables on the way to the stairs, trying to get out of the way as quickly as possible without drawing any attention.

McCree fishes the keys out of one of the pockets of his coat and hands one to Hanzo. “You’re that one,” he says, pointing to the door next to the one he’s stopped in front of. He fiddles with his own key before sticking it in the lock. “You interested in comin’ along to meet with a contact tomorrow, while we’re out?”

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “That does not _sound_ particularly restful. I thought the point of staying in town was to take a short break from work. ”

McCree leans against the door frame with an easy grin. “Well, while we’re already not bein’ restful…” He tips his head towards the room invitingly. “Got a bottle of somethin’ that’ll at least make our little workin’ holiday bearable.”

“Yes, because your taste in alcohol is always flawless,” Hanzo replies dryly. As true as his criticism is, he’s already pushing past McCree to get inside, making himself as comfortable as he can get at the small table and chairs crammed into the corner of the room. The last rays of sunlight are trying in vain to light the room through the small window placed up high on the wall, so Hanzo lights the lantern on the table for McCree’s benefit.

“My taste in alcohol is fine! It’s your taste in _general_ that’s the issue,” McCree protests, and Hanzo tips his head to concede the point, the burnt taste of his dinner still fresh on his mind.

A moment of concentration, and the illusion of a human face melts away to reveal his own underneath. Finally able to relax, Hanzo watches lazily as McCree rifles through his belongings in their bag on the bed and puts a bulky paper-wrapped parcel on the table, scooting it his way. “You’ll probably like this more than that bottle, anyway,” McCree says, watching Hanzo peel the paper open to reveal its contents.

Inside the paper is a small wooden box, and inside the box sit a number of large, dark redberries. Hanzo’s eyes widen in delighted surprise, and he swiftly plucks one from the pile to pop into his mouth, biting off the top to discard while he chews the rest. The sweet flavor bursts over his tongue, erasing the lingering taste of his half-hearted dinner, and Hanzo swipes his thumb to catch the trickle of juice that tries to escape from the corner of his mouth, unwilling to yield any small portion of the treat.

Clearing his throat, McCree turns back to his bag, saying, “Yeah, thought you might prefer those,” as he finally emerges triumphant with a glass bottle of unidentifiable brown liquid. Hanzo’s nostrils flare in distaste when McCree pulls the top off, releasing a strong odor of liquor that stings his sensitive nose.

“When did you find the time to buy them?” Hanzo asks idly, reaching in for another strawberry. A paler red, and more tart than the first, but still a rare indulgence.

McCree flashes a roguish grin at him. “You didn’t think it was odd I was in the general store for more’n a few seconds to get pointed in the direction of an inn? Had to look through their selection, see what looked nicest.”

“Hm. In any case, thank you.” He’s a little surprised McCree remembered his mention a few weeks ago of the wild blackberries he used to find occasionally in his exile, one of the few foods that he’s ever truly enjoyed eating. These are far sweeter, but no less appreciated.

Still, when McCree politely offers the bottle after taking a less-than-polite swig directly from it, Hanzo sets the strawberries aside for a moment and takes a careful sip. Not quite as revolting as some others he’s tried, at least, though it’s nowhere near anything he would drink if he had any other options. Emboldened, he drinks more deeply while McCree settles into the other chair across the table, then hands it back.

“Not bad,” Hanzo declares. McCree nods at him, satisfied. “Not good, either,” Hanzo adds, just to watch him splutter.

“I’d like to see you find anything better at a place small as this,” McCree shoots back. “What would you have us drinkin’, then?”

“Sake,” Hanzo replies immediately, a small, fond smile making its way across his face at the memory of the last time he drank something he genuinely enjoyed. “We always had plenty of it, at home — I suppose the villagers figured out, over time, that it was one of the human-made things we most valued. When the village first grew up around our home and the residents began leaving offerings for us to leave them be, they left mostly crops, some trinkets made by local crafters. Eventually they realized liquor was also welcome. I have not had any sake in...a very long time.”

“You don’t talk about home much,” McCree notes, eyeing him carefully.

“Nor do you.” One of Hanzo’s shoulders lifts in an easy shrug. “I miss it dearly, and I can never go back. Talking about it will not make it any easier.”

McCree hums thoughtfully. “Suppose so. I wasn’t leaving the kind of place you miss, so I never really thought about it. Truth be told, things were too busy to think about it anymore by the time I got over here.”

“That was when you started hunting?”

“Heh, yeah.” McCree stretches his legs out in front of him, balancing the bottle on his knee with a careful hand. “Learnin’ all the kinds of folk, spirits, and monsters out in the world and how to deal with them is hard enough, but for a kid dragged across the ocean and newly apprenticed to a hunter’s guild? It was a lot to keep up with. And then they started trainin’ me to fight — not that I didn’t know how to fight regular humans, mind — and makin’ sure I knew where the outposts were, which contacts could fix me up with what supplies…” He shrugs. “Like I said, too busy to care about much else.”

Hanzo nods in understanding, then pauses, unsure how to ask what’s been on his mind since McCree mentioned it. Hanzo surveys his dwindling supply of strawberries critically while he considers, and decides bluntness might the be best approach. “Do you truly think it’s a good idea for me to meet one of these contacts?”

“Seein’ as I met him through a mutual friend who’s a ghoul, yeah, I don’t think it should be much of a problem at all.”

_That_ is unusual enough to merit a raised eyebrow. “I haven’t heard of many ghouls who would befriend a human.”

“Heard of many demons who would?” McCree asks with a grin. Fair enough, Hanzo supposes, and inclines his head to concede the point. “She started off human, though. A hunter. Worked with the fella we’ll meet tomorrow, along with all the other folks who trained me. The ghoul thing came later, and since that was a bit of a conflict of interest, she decided to retire, make a livin’ off the potions and alchemy she dabbled in. She’s the one who made that charm of ours.”

Hanzo eyes McCree carefully. “Do you believe I have a conflict of interest, as well? Am I not as odd a choice for hunting monsters as her?”

McCree shrugs, seemingly unconcerned. “Figured you had your own reasons for huntin’ on your own like you were before we met. Just have to be able to see that the things we hunt are hurtin’ people, and agree it isn’t right. So long as that’s the case, any of my contacts shouldn’t have any problem with you. Always a good idea to know who your allies are, in any case.”

“Hm.” Hanzo finishes off the last strawberry and licks at the sticky-sweet red stains that remain on the pads of his fingers, chasing the last of the treat. “I’ll go with you to meet him, then, if you think it’s safe. I’d rather avoid causing a scene.”

McCree’s jaw shuts with an audible click. “Sounds, uh — sounds good.” He seals up the remaining contents of the bottle, placing it on the table between them with an inelegant clunk, then laces his hands together.

“I should leave you to your rest, shouldn’t I?” Hanzo hadn’t realized it was fully dark outside, but the window shows the sky has passed from twilight blue to pitch black.

“Guess you’ll be wantin’ that whole room you got,” McCree says agreeably enough, albeit with a disappointed twist to his mouth. “What do you do overnight, anyway? Since you don’t sleep much?”

Hanzo shrugs as he stands from the chair. “It varies. Mostly I train, to keep up my fitness, but I think I will sleep for at least part of tonight. After that hunt, we could both use a rest.”

“I’ll say.” McCree’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Night, Hanzo.”

 

* * *

 

True to his word, McCree takes the lead the following day.

Their first stop is to the general store they visited the night before, where at least they can browse undisturbed once they wave the clerk off. Once they’ve gathered their items, McCree bundles it all up to pay at the front of the store, while Hanzo relegates himself to waiting near the entrance. Despite not looking as rested as he should from a night in a real bed after weeks of sleeping on the ground, McCree still seems upbeat with the store clerk, lingering for a bit of a chat after he uses their pooled money to pay for everything.

From there, they leave for the smithy. McCree leans in on the way there to tell Hanzo that in addition to being a planned stop, it’s also where they’ll find his contact.

Hanzo resolutely ignores the trepidation that builds in his gut as they draw closer and begin to hear the clanking noises of metal on metal up ahead. Even after months of traveling with McCree, he occasionally has to suppress the discomfort of being around so many humans after his years spent alone, in the forest and tracking anything dangerous that entered his territory. Knowing that they’re heading in the direction of a hunter — even a retired one — does nothing but increase that sense of disquiet.

...Until they turn the corner and see only two people working out front, an older man and a younger woman. The woman looks far too young to be the contact McCree spoke of, and while the man seems to be the one they’re looking for based on how McCree walks towards him instead of for the door to the inside, his exuberant greeting doesn’t seem to fit with the grizzled hunter Hanzo has been picturing since the previous night.

“McCree, you ass, you haven’t brought me your arm in almost a year!”

Despite the hostile words, the man’s tone is friendly enough as he waves them over with a rudimentary metal claw, setting down the tools held in his other hand.

“Ana can fix metal _and_ magic, you know,” McCree retorts. “Why is it so bad if I take it to her instead?”

“Because I’m the one who built the damn thing, that’s why!” the man grouches, reaching out to seize hold of McCree’s left arm as soon as he draws near enough. He turns it over to inspect it closely. “I have to at least make sure you’re giving my work the respect it deserves.”

He finally harrumphs and lets go of McCree a moment later, turning his critical eye from the arm to Hanzo. “Picked up a hunting partner, have you?” the man asks, looking Hanzo up and down. Though Hanzo doesn’t consider himself well-versed in human behavior, he can guess this one isn’t terribly impressed by him.

“Torbjörn, this is Hanzo. Figured it’d be best to introduce him while things are quiet. He’s a bit of a special case — real good at what he does.” In a quieter voice, he turns to Hanzo, conforming his suspicions. “Hanzo, Torbjörn’s the one I was talkin’ about. Last time we needed to restock we were too far out of the way to do it here, but the Lindholms have the finest tools and materials there are.”

Hanzo nods politely in acknowledgment but doesn’t hold out a hand, cautious of being seized and similarly inspected.

“A special case like Ana and Jack, I see,” Torbjörn says shrewdly, making Hanzo’s skin crawl at the knowing note to his voice. “In any case, McCree’s right, except for leaving out the quality of the smith himself! Don’t bother going anywhere else for supplies — if I can’t find it or make it, it’s not worth getting your hands on. My wife and my youngest also work here and know all of the, ah, other applications of our materials, so feel free to speak freely with whoever’s in the shop when you pop by.”

“Speaking of, I’ve got quite the list here,” McCree says, pulling a scrap of paper from inside his coat. “Can we head inside, start gatherin’ it up? We’ve had a tirin’ week, so we’d like to get back to the inn and rest while we can before the next job comes in.”

“Alright, alright, hang on. Don’t think you’re getting out of here without a tune-up on your arm, either.” Torbjörn turns to the young woman hunched over her workbench and calls across the yard to her. “Brigitte, if anyone else comes by looking for me, let them know I’m inside!”

As they walk past on their way to the shop’s entrance, Torbjörn remarks to McCree, “I suppose the quiet one won’t be joining us, eh?”

McCree successfully dodges the elbow aimed towards him in protest and instead turns to Hanzo with an uncomfortable expression. “Mind waitin’ out here while he takes my arm apart? Might be a while, but I’ll meet you back out here with everything.”

The corner of Hanzo’s mouth turns down into a small frown, distasteful at the thought of remaining outside in full view of any passersby, despite the fact that the illusion he wears is safely concealed in the shadow the hood casts on his face. Regardless, he nods and watches the pair disappear into the front door of the shop; he can’t begrudge McCree his desire for privacy when having his prosthesis taken apart and examined, even if it means he’s left waiting outside once more.

At least the foot traffic near the smithy is sparse enough to not pose too much of a risk, and he supposes that anyone walking by might just ascribe his silence to the early hour. Truthfully, he’s perfectly content to allow people to assume him to be dour and withdrawn, and Torbjörn isn’t the first to fall for it. The more eyes that skip over him without much notice due to his silence, the lower the chances of any nosy townsfolk discovering his true nature and fetching the nearest hunter to dispatch him.

On the other hand, with McCree around and actively advertising the nature of his work, at least the resulting confrontation would be interesting before they’d have to run for their lives.

The fact that the Lindholms are supposedly accustomed to clients of the non-human variety does nothing to allay the instinct to make himself as unobtrusive as possible. Unfortunately, his usual act doesn’t appear to be enough to dissuade Brigitte, who peers curiously at him from across the smithy. Once she’s finished shaping the greaves on the workbench in front of her, she removes the heavy leather gloves she wears and approaches, brushing her hands off on her work apron as she goes.

“ _Hej hej_!” she calls out cheerily, seemingly unperturbed by his skulking off to the side of the shop’s entryway. Hanzo’s uncertain whether she’s failed to understand that he cultivates his demeanor in order to persuade people to leave him be, or, as seems more likely from the genuine smile on her face, if she simply does not particularly care.

“That’s a beautiful bow! I haven’t seen anything nearly so fancy as that before. D’you mind me asking who made it?”

“It’s magical,” Hanzo replies stiffly, suspicious of her intentions. “It was not, ah, _crafted_ , as such.”

Brigitte lets the subject go easily enough, although Hanzo’s guard still remains up. “Oh! My uncle’s got something similar, except his is a flaming hammer instead of a bow. He said it was a gift from _something_ powerful, just plucked out of midair. Of course, we had to find someone to enchant his armor to match! Does that use real arrows or magic arrows?”

Her unwaning enthusiasm as she continues to ask about the minute details of his bow’s use has Hanzo beginning to suspect that she truly is just this chatty with everyone who carries a remotely interesting weapon, whether they look like they’re searching for conversation or not.

Such single-minded focus is charming, especially in someone he’s relying on for producing quality weapons that will keep them safe, but the urge to subject McCree to her opinions on his beloved revolver is too strong to pass up. Besides, though he understands McCree wanting some privacy while someone inspects his arm, surely that part has finished in the time they’ve been talking. “My friend inside your shop has a...rather unique gun. He thinks it’s the finest weapon ever made, but I’d be interested in hearing your thoughts on whether it is as fine as he says.”

“Ha! Oh, mechanisms like that would be more like Papa’s area of expertise,” Brigitte says, but unties the work apron from around her waist and slips it over her head anyway. “Either way, I’d sure like to see it.”

As the bell over the door jingles merrily to announce their presence, Hanzo sees McCree dart a wide-eyed look over his shoulder at the door and tenses, certain from his reaction that something must be wrong. But McCree relaxes upon seeing him in the doorway, so after a moment Hanzo forces down the flash of alarm and instead joins him at the counter.

“That should do you well enough for a time,” Torbjörn harrumphs, looking over the weaponry piled on the bench in front of Ingrid. “Just make sure you stay stocked up, you hear? Been hearing of a number of travelers disappearing off the roads.”

McCree’s hand stills where it’s fishing inside his pocket for coin. “Any idea what’s causin’ the disappearin’?” he asks, voice deliberately light.

“Well...not quite—”

“Reinhardt said he thought it looked like the work of a vampire, remember?” Ingrid corrects her husband, looking at him with some concern. “I know we don’t like to think of these things happening here, but he seemed rather certain of it.”

Hanzo freezes at her words and sees McCree doing the same; their eyes dart towards each other’s, already in agreement before either has to say anything. There’s a beat of silence before McCree finally speaks up again.

“In that case, I think we’re going to need to add a few items to that order,” he says.

 

* * *

 

McCree breaks his uncharacteristic silence a few hours into their ride, southward along one of the wide boulevards worn into the forest floor by centuries of travelers before them. “Don’t mind if we make a quick stop on the way, do you? Means we’ll have a roof over our heads for the night, if that makes any difference.”

He’s wearing a charming smile as he asks, as if he thinks that will affect Hanzo’s answer. As if Hanzo needs any convincing to spend the night indoors. Since he can function well enough without sleep for long periods of time, camping on the road means Hanzo always volunteers to keep watch the entire night — and as much as McCree puts up a token protest about splitting it equally, it’s better for both of them if he’s fully rested.

“Are you trying to get me to agree _before_ you tell me there are other people involved?” Hanzo asks mildly. He’s only just been able to dispel the illusion that makes him appear human, and short of having to put it back in place, he can’t think of anything McCree might suggest that he would object to.

McCree tips his head back and laughs, loud and hearty. “Would I do that to you?”

He actually isn’t too concerned about it: in all the months they’ve been traveling together, McCree has taken his promise to keep other hunters from sniffing around Hanzo very seriously, going so far as offering to meet with unproven contacts about potential jobs alone to avoid raising any suspicion about his new companion.

The previous day’s meeting proved to be a rare exception, and Hanzo can’t resist raising an eyebrow and turning in the saddle to look meaningfully back in the direction they’ve come from, prompting another small laugh from McCree.

“I only ask so that I know ahead of time if I will have to disguise myself again so soon,” Hanzo clarifies, heartened by the return to their normal travel banter. “If that is the case, I may actually need another night’s rest to recover.”

“No, it’s nothing like that,” McCree assures him with a warm smile. “We’re just passing close enough to one of my cabins that I’d like to swing by, restock it a bit. Always a good idea to have a bolt hole or five scattered around, but it’s a better idea to keep ‘em full up on supplies.”

And that’s enough to strike Hanzo back into silence. It’s one thing to have an inexplicable fondness for a demon, and entirely another to trust one at all, let alone to this extent. Even if McCree brushes it off as one property of many that he keeps, even if he’s thrown himself fully into this partnership, even if Hanzo takes him at face value—

Sometimes Hanzo forgets how much McCree is already putting himself at risk, traveling with him. He supposes that in the face of all the precautions McCree has to take to avoid every other human being in the same line of work, in case they turn on him for his unconventional choice of traveling companion, allowing a demon into one of his privately-kept spaces is just about as dangerous as anything else he does.

McCree is still looking at him, waiting for an answer, so Hanzo swallows past his dry throat and agrees readily enough.

As it turns out, McCree was right to ask when he did; less than an hour later, he steers them onto a smaller path off the main road, narrow enough that they have to travel single file instead of side by side, as is their usual. The trees become denser as they move deeper into the woods, the branches above blocking out more and more of the sunlight.

Hanzo feels the cabin McCree mentioned before he sees it. The first prickling of magic against his skin is mildly off-putting, which soon progresses to intense discomfort by the time he can see a small wooden structure about a hundred meters ahead. Stomach churning, he halts his horse, shutting his eyes and focusing on his breathing to push away the dizzying pressure that makes his head feel like it’s about to burst.

“McCree,” Hanzo calls out, then winces in regret when it comes out louder than he intended.

His sensitive ears pick up a curse from further ahead, then the muffled sound of hooves against the underbrush as McCree’s familiar scent draws closer. “Shit, Hanzo, I didn’t realize the wards went out this far, I’m sorry. Hold up.”

When McCree’s gloved hand settles over his own, Hanzo obligingly lets go of the reins, letting McCree turn his hand so that the palm faces upward. What Hanzo _doesn’t_ expect is the sharp sting that follows; when he cracks his eyes open just enough to see what’s happening, he sees a cut across his palm oozing blood, while McCree quietly murmurs an incantation over it. As soon as McCree stops speaking, the pressure lifts from Hanzo’s shoulders and he takes a deep, steadying breath, flexing the injured hand until he’s satisfied that the bleeding has stopped.

Hanzo hasn’t felt any warding that powerful in years, and unless McCree has been hiding a significant amount of knowledge of defensive magic, there’s no way he crafted the wards on his own. Besides, McCree usually conducts his own magic in either the traditional Latin or his native Spanish, enough that Hanzo bears a passing familiarity with their sound. Whatever language that was, it isn’t anything Hanzo’s heard before. “Not a ward you designed yourself, then?” he asks lightly, hoping to distract McCree into getting rid of the guilty furrow of his brow.

Tucking the knife back into one of the many hiding places in his coat, McCree casts another worried look at Hanzo before turning his horse around to resume their course to the cabin. “Neighbor helped me with it,” he says over his shoulder. “I know how to make sure it’s workin’ right and how to let someone into it, but that’s as much as I’m comfortable with.”

Taking the lead from McCree, Hanzo dismounts once they reach the front of the cabin, and they both lead their horses around to a small shelter tucked against the back wall. Once the horses are tethered and groomed, left with a small portion of oats each and enough forage within reach for them to be satisfied overnight, they both grab the supplies from town and haul them around to the front door, which takes McCree some effort to open. Only after he puts his shoulder against it and gives a hard shove does the sturdy wood scrape its way ajar.

The interior of the cabin is small, but appears functional enough. The main visible features are the empty wood stove set against the back wall, a small table and soft-looking chaise lounge set in front of it, and a wide bed tucked against the wall closest to them, with the rest of the space walled off, presumably for storage. Hanzo’s suspicions are confirmed when McCree opens one of the doors and dumps their purchased supplies inside. “We’ll sort through all that later,” he says dismissively, then gestures to the chair. “I’ve got some food here, if you want to eat. Either way, make yourself comfortable. Think I might turn in early, but if you need anything, feel free to wake me up.”

McCree does drop off, not long after that; Hanzo pauses in the middle of checking his equipment for damage when he first hears a whistling noise, and looks over to see McCree tucked neatly into the bed in the corner, snoring face-first into the pillows. With nothing better to do, Hanzo follows McCree’s example once he’s finished ensuring his arrows are all outfitted for hunting vampires, and settles onto the chaise to rest.

The chair is too soft for his preference, but just barely comfortable enough to suit his needs. Still, since he doesn’t actually need the rest, he wakes easily — and does so abruptly, partway through the night, in response to some noise that sets off his survival instincts, leaving him disoriented but ready for a fight. The source of what woke him doesn’t become apparent until it comes again, a few uncertain seconds later, a harsh, keening gasp emerging from the direction of the bed.

Before he’s even aware of moving, Hanzo is tearing across the cabin, ready to fend off whatever has made it past the wards. The question of _how_ anything managed to slip through such powerful warding flashes through his mind, only briefly, before he’s reached the corner that the bed is set into.

There’s nothing there. Hanzo’s racing mind takes a second to register the absence of any visible threat, looking around fruitlessly for any signs of an intruder, no matter how small, until he falters, realizing the true nature of what’s afflicting McCree.

Reluctantly, Hanzo takes a few steps back, well aware of how unwise it would be for a demon to wake a startled hunter.

It takes a few tries to wake him, long enough to worry Hanzo. Once McCree’s eyes finally do snap open, he lies perfectly still in bed for a moment, breathing heavily. Despite the darkness, the dim glow from Hanzo’s eyes casts enough light that he can see the tight, pained look on McCree’s face as he recovers, wincing as he stretches his limbs and sits upright.

Pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes, rubbing the glazed, half-asleep look out of them, McCree mutters, “‘S the matter?”

“Nothing is wrong, just—”

“Just what?”

Quietly, Hanzo says, “I didn’t know you had night terrors.”

McCree scoffs. “Neither did I. Not the type to get ‘em.” He rolls his neck from side to side briskly, but there’s a trace of uncertainty in his voice.

They must be a new development, then.

Too late, Hanzo realized what he must look like — a pair of glowing eyes in the dark emitting just enough light to give the suggestion of his demonic face, in front of someone who’s just likely been faced with even worse monsters in his sleep. “I’ll let you get back to your rest, then,” Hanzo says hastily, stepping back in the direction of the chaise before he stresses McCree even further.

“No, you don’t have to—” McCree pauses, visibly steels himself, and then: “That chair’s a little narrow. Might be more comfortable to sit here a while, if you want.”

Hanzo may have lost some of his inclination towards subtlety in the years since he left the clan, but he would have to be a fool to not understand what McCree is asking, and can’t find it in himself to deny him when the aftereffects of the night terror are so clearly lingering. Even if McCree’s choice in companion does seem a little odd, considering the likely subject of his dream. “I suppose,” he says haltingly, a little surprised by McCree’s request.

Still, he can’t regret his decision when he sees how eagerly McCree shuffles to one side of the bed, leaving ample room for Hanzo to sit on the other side. McCree was right; even accounting for the two of them side by side, there’s more room to spare on the spacious bed than on the narrow chaise. Gingerly, Hanzo settles in on top of the blanket, sitting cross-legged and looking sideways to see if McCree intends to go right back to sleep or if that possibility is off the table until the dream is a little less fresh on his mind.

Something else catches his eye, instead, when he looks over — just the barest hint of something underneath the collar of McCree’s shirt, almost entirely obscured by the fabric. “Do you really wear your amulet to bed?” Hanzo asks curiously, trying not to let his faint amusement color his voice. And McCree always calls _him_ paranoid. “The magic will still work as long as you keep it close by, you know.”

Rather than defend himself, McCree pulls the blanket up higher against his chest, covering the area in question. “You want to sass me, you can go right ahead from the discomfort of that chair,” he warns loftily, carefully reclining partially upright against the pillows while staying firmly tucked under the blanket. “No mockin’ allowed while you’re over here.”

Hanzo lets out a small snort, relieved to hear McCree back in good spirits even if his eyes still dart around the room uncertainly. “It isn’t the most supportive thing to sleep on, you’re right,” he drawls, although he’s spent many a night in far less comfortable conditions before. Besides—

“I suppose I’d better behave myself, then,” Hanzo says, with a quirk of his lips. “The company is far better over here.”

As he hoped, his comment catches McCree off-guard enough to earn a faint chuckle. McCree settles a little further into the pillows, and though he looks over to the darker corners of the room once or twice, he visibly relaxes when his eyes find Hanzo again.

Hanzo tries not to be flattered, but misses the mark. “Careful,” he says with a self-deprecating quirk of his lips. “You’ll send yourself right into another nightmare from looking at me for too long.”

“Missed your face, is all,” McCree murmurs, nearly quiet enough to escape even Hanzo’s sensitive hearing.

“Hm?”

McCree says, “In town,” as if that clarifies anything at all. At Hanzo’s further look of confusion — lingering effects of the nightmare, perhaps? — McCree drags his eyes open against the drowsiness pulling them closed, squinting over at him. “The illusion you use. Useful, but I don’t like not seeing the real you for that long at a time.”

Hanzo can’t restrain the dismissive snort that bursts forth. “You’d be the first human to complain about not seeing the face of a demon often enough.”

“Come on, Hanzo, you’re a handsome devil in any form you take,” McCree says with a lazy half-smile. Hanzo can only imagine the look of stunned bafflement on his face at such a singularly unfortunate turn of phrase, but it must be exaggerated enough to startle a small laugh out of McCree. “Honestly! You’re gettin’ humble now of all times?”

Seizing upon the buried thread of discomfort at the sudden attention, Hanzo allows the annoyance to shift the angles of his face closer to its extreme, a scowl emerging on the demonic features as his horns emerge. “You _cannot_ tell me that you don’t want to flee when you see this,” he insists. “Instinctually, if nothing else.”

“Nah,” McCree says easily in response, reaching up to trace his fingers across the red streak across his cheekbone, following the scroll of it upwards around his eye to the horn just above. “Like I said — striking. In a good way.”

Hanzo has to suppress a shudder as McCree curls a hand around the base of the horn where it protrudes from his skull, rubbing a thumb absentmindedly across the sensitive line where it melds into Hanzo’s skin as he talks. “Got a lot of fond memories of that face. Usually it’s right before you send the thing tryin’ to kill me fleeing, which is a big plus in my book.”

The twinned lights from McCree’s prosthetic and Hanzo’s eyes mix, illuminating the space between them well enough for Hanzo to see McCree still watching him closely. All his years of lonely exile have left him unfamiliar with being touched or looked at with such tenderness.

Uncomfortable at the attention, Hanzo grabs McCree’s hand in one of his own and removes it from his horn, shifting his face back to its normal state in the process. He doesn’t immediately let go of McCree’s hand, and McCree doesn’t withdraw it, either.

There’s less distance between them than he realized, and he sees the moment when McCree abruptly realizes it too.

As his horns and tusks recede into nothingness, McCree’s gaze shifts down to his mouth, and Hanzo only has to hold his breath for one hopeful second before that hand settles on his cheek and he’s drawn into a tentative kiss that lasts for only a too-brief moment.

“Sorry,” McCree says as he withdraws, breath shaky and warm an inch from Hanzo’s mouth. “I probably shouldn’t have—”

Hanzo wraps an arm around McCree’s waist, soft and warm with sleep, splays a hand against the small of his back and draws him closer to erase the doubt in his voice. McCree lets out a quiet “oh” of surprise and presses further against him, sliding the hand on Hanzo’s cheek around to the back of his neck to pull him close as the kiss turns deeper.

Did he think Hanzo hasn’t noticed his interest, or hasn’t thought about doing the same? He can’t even be bothered by the stale taste of sleep that lingers in McCree’s mouth, mingling in the air gasped between them whenever McCree has to pause to breathe. Hanzo has to restrain himself from chasing after him each time, all his months of growing affection for his partner boiling over until he feels giddy with it.

McCree breaks away, pants against his mouth and laughs, sounding faintly delirious. “Gonna have another kind of dream entirely if you keep that up,” he says, stroking the soft skin at the back of Hanzo’s neck before reluctantly disentangling himself. “Listen, can we — can we talk, after this hunt? Probably not the best idea to go into it distracted, but I want to, when we have the time.”

“We can.” Hanzo realizes he’s crossed the midline of the bed and shifts until he’s firmly on one side, allowing McCree his space. He’s the one that truly needs to sleep, after all. “You should get some more rest, if you can manage it.”

“Got a big spooky demon right here to chase away the things that go bump in the night, of course I can get some more sleep,” McCree retorts, biting off a yawn. For all his enthusiasm a few minutes earlier, he does look well on his way back to sleep, and Hanzo watches him slip further down the headboard and sink into the pillow, seemingly ready to do just that.

McCree pauses for a moment. “Never have figured how you talk around those chompers,” he mumbles nonsensically into the pillow, eyes slowly drifting shut.

“That part _is_ difficult,” Hanzo says quietly, but McCree has already fallen asleep. He watches carefully for a few minutes, looking for any sign of the night terror’s return, but McCree stays still and silent, and, satisfied, Hanzo settles under the blanket to follow his example.

The shadows under McCree’s eyes only look darker in the morning.

 

* * *

 

At Hanzo’s insistence, McCree spends the rest of the day resting. With the pattern of disappearances that the Lindholms brought up, it’s likely that many of the vanished travelers may still be alive as thralls. A nighttime hunt may be their best chance to recover any survivors, if they’re wandering around mindlessly rather than secreted away someplace isolated during daytime; Hanzo estimates that they won’t have to leave the cabin until well after midday in order to reach the site of the most recent disappearance by twilight.

Despite his grumbling — enough that Hanzo keeps a watchful eye on the bed in the corner to ensure that he stays put — McCree does seem inclined to follow Hanzo’s instruction, napping fitfully throughout the day. It has the added benefit of keeping Hanzo’s tongue in check; although he’s almost distracted by the prospect of _after the hunt_ , he knows McCree’s right to save it for later, but it’s easier to resist temptation and stick to their agreement with McCree asleep for most of the day.

Though McCree’s color doesn’t improve, with spots of color remaining high on his cheeks, his eyes do look more alert by the time they start checking over their gear and sorting through supplies to prepare for their departure.

Privately, Hanzo is relieved that McCree seems improved enough to be ready for a hunt.

A few words to reinforce the wards around the cabin in their absence, and they’re on their way, the trip passing in silence similar to the day before. This time, they travel on foot - no need to risk their only horses, especially when they’re more likely to be a liability, reducing their ability to move silently and strike before their target becomes aware of their presence.

Hanzo takes the lead as they sweep the area immediately surrounding the stretch of road the last victim was seen on. A chill breeze follows at their backs as they move away from the road and further into the tall grasses rustling over the low hills, and Hanzo sees a subtle shiver run through McCree.

The fields carry no sign of anyone passing through recently, even after they inspect a few sheds and barns that they come across in their pursuit. Hanzo begins to feel frustration welling up, wondering if perhaps they should seek out more accurate information and try again another night, as they approach a small, darkened church sitting stark against the rolling landscape.

With the low-light conditions, lit only by the moon above, it’s no wonder Hanzo spots their quarry first. He murmurs, “Is that—” to McCree, directing his attention to the churchyard and cemetery a few dozen meters ahead, with a number of figures standing eerily still in the center of it. Unfortunately, it gets more than just McCree’s attention.

Instead of the dull, glassy-eyed stare of more than a dozen stumbling thralls, they’re instead met with slit-pupiled glares and exposed fangs as the newborn vampires turn as one to hiss in their direction.

Hunting a vampire at night is an acceptable risk in order to more easily track down their thralls and ensure their safe return. Accidentally stumbling onto a nest of twice as many vampires as they can comfortably dispatch is less than ideal, but they adapt readily to their situation, Hanzo rushing forward to throw them off while McCree runs off to get a bit of distance between them.

After all the confinement that moving among human civilization brings, it’s freeing to utilize his full speed and strength without having to tone it down to avoid a second glance. Even with the pressure of an unbalanced fight, Hanzo still rides the edge of that exhilaration as he slams his bow crosswise into a vampire, making it stumble long enough to shove an arrow far enough into its chest that the wooden shaft pierces its stilled heart. It allows him to step back and draw his bow enough to unload another arrow into its chest, dropping it for good.

Two of the vampires rush him, arms outstretched as if to attempt to pin him, but Hanzo darts smoothly out of the way and watches them crash into each other, faintly amused by the sight. A third tries to take advantage of the distraction, and Hanzo ducks, impacting heavily with its legs and heaving it bodily into the pile with its fellows.

Hanzo catches a familiar murmur on the wind and lets out a feral grin, stepping aside to ensure McCree has a clear line of sight as sunlight slowly gathers in answer to his summons. A few more words to finish the incantation, this time from McCree’s mother tongue, and the pile of vampires collapses into itself as a spray of bullets strikes them all at once, going still after one last jerk of limbs. The jumble of sun-touched bodies dissolves into a shower of dust that sticks to Hanzo’s calves as he backs away.

Without a glove over the prosthetic for stealth — useless with vampires and their perfect night vision anyway — Hanzo keeps the orange light in his peripheral vision as he moves to flank his next target, in case McCree needs him to intervene. While hunters can hold their own in the field, it doesn’t mean that Hanzo isn’t ready to use his superior speed and strength to ensure that none of their quarry make it close enough to McCree to pose a threat. McCree might have a keen eye, especially at a distance, but he’s no more immune to being snuck up on than anyone else, and a flashbang only buys so much time.

Some of the vampires have become wise to the fact that their claws and fangs can’t penetrate Hanzo’s skin, and instead turn their interest to McCree. It seems he’s doing well enough for himself at the moment, smoothly downing another vampire careening at him with a few shots through the heart. It’s always hard to tell how much wood needs to enter their heart to stop it for good, but it doesn’t seem like either of them are running low on ammunition yet.

The churned ground of the graveyard is starting to become slick with blood and mud under his feet. Hanzo tries to lead the other vampires onto firmer ground, opening his stance to look like easy prey, baiting them into following. One is stupid enough to fall for it, but the remainder peel off towards McCree instead, opting to remove themselves from the immediate danger.

At least, they try.

Hanzo snarls out a summons and sends his spirits spiraling around each other after their quarry. The pack splinters into smaller groups as they go; the spirits only chew their way through two of the vampires, but their prey fall even faster than to Hanzo’s weapons. He puts them out of his mind and charges forward with the secondhand energy from the kill, sweeping his bow underneath one’s legs to down it as he skids to a stop next to McCree, ready to put himself between him and the vampires if need be.

“Howdy!” McCree says, sounding cheerful, if slightly out of breath. Hanzo doesn’t respond, drawing three arrows and landing them rapid-fire in the chest of the one he sent sprawling.

McCree throws a flashbang as the remaining vampires attempt to swarm the two of them, leading to a chorus of yelps while McCree and Hanzo both shut their eyes simultaneously with the ease of practice. When they reopen them, the vampires are still frozen in place, faces blistering slightly from the bright light, allowing McCree to shoot two and Hanzo to shove a cluster of arrows straight through another’s heart in the time it takes them to recover.

Something impacts with Hanzo’s side and he spins out of the way, still managing to keep his balance as he turns to face the newcomer. The others move towards him as one, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers.

Out of the corner of his eye, Hanzo catches sight of the same golden light as before and jerks backwards in disbelief, eyes going wide. Far behind the swarming vampires, McCree stands on the half-crumbled stone wall encircling the cemetery, glowing so incandescently that he outshines the weak silver moonlight. Already, the vampires directly in front of him begin to smoke faintly, each of their attempted attacks against Hanzo gaining a desperate edge as the outermost layer of undead skin begins to disintegrate.

“McCree!” Hanzo calls in between blows, alarmed that he’s using it again so soon. The one and only other time he saw McCree attempt to use his gift twice in one day, he was laid up for nearly a week afterwards with a splitting headache. While there are more vampires still present than he’d prefer, after felling so many already, Hanzo doesn’t see their situation as so dire that it requires aid of this magnitude.

But the vampires demand his full attention, grasping for his bow and quiver, preventing him from drawing any arrows. Hanzo tries to reach into one of the pouches around his waist, where he’s sure he left a simple stake earlier, but there are insistent hands clawing at his arm to keep it away from his belt.

Without the intelligence to realize that attacking Hanzo will do them no good while McCree’s ritual chanting continues, the cornered vampires fall as one as a series of resounding cracks echo off the headstones, the wood-tipped bullets that McCree purchased only yesterday entering each of their hearts with deadeyed precision. McCree’s lambent silhouette fades as he sends them to their final rest, mixed in with the dirt among the tombstones.

As the vampire he’d been grappling with turns to dust that scatters to the ground at his feet, Hanzo staggers back, stake made useless by McCree’s intervention. Only a few remaining, and Hanzo turns back to shout to McCree to rest, that he’ll be back once he’s taken care of the others, and—

He can’t see McCree.

The long-stilled heart in his chest lurches at the empty space where McCree was standing just moments before. His focus shifts entirely — foolishly — to the crumbling wall, searching for any sign of the familiar orange glow. When another vampire takes advantage of his distraction by tackling him, Hanzo nearly falls down with the force of the blow. He plants his feet at the last second and hurls the vampire over his shoulder, barely registering the sickening snap of its neck as it impacts with the ground, too busy bolting towards where he last saw McCree.

As he draws closer, he sees a crumpled figure laying on the ground. No vampires stand around him, and Hanzo’s mind races wildly as he tries to recall if there was even one near him that could’ve struck in the time since he last saw him.

His breathing sounds harsh in his ears as Hanzo reaches McCree. He must’ve fallen awkwardly; he lies with his metal arm underneath him, legs askew in a way that sends Hanzo howling through a mouth crowded with tusks. It looks like McCree simply tipped forward from his position atop the wall.

Hanzo doesn’t realize how fully he’s shifted until he drags McCree’s limp form into his lap, the weight seeming even more negligible than usual. Struggling to speak around his tusks only further complicates the task of trying to wake McCree when he can’t regulate himself enough to allow their bulk to recede. Frantic for some sign of his status, Hanzo searches for a wound, running a hand along either side of McCree’s neck. No punctures there. He moves on, checking for any holes in his shirt, but finds nothing until he reaches the fully-buttoned collar.

Only a faint gleam is visible from where the charm rests on its chain against McCree’s chest, almost completely obscured by a vibrant red glow. It’s unlike anything Hanzo has seen before; he has to tear away the scarlet bandana from around McCree’s neck and rip open the collar of the white shirt underneath, in order to assess the full extent of the damage.

An enormous red wound sits just off to one side of McCree’s sternum, carving through healthy tissue to form a crater. Alarming on its own, but surrounding it lay a series of black fissures that expand the malevolent affliction even further.

This — isn’t anything the vampires have done. They have a few tricks of their own, but not the magic that so obviously fuels the ugly wound. Hanzo can only stare, dumbfounded, at the sick black pestilence snaking its way across McCree’s chest, attempting to choke the life out of him — at the violent red chasm, gaping open and raw, its light pulsing slowly, faintly. Hanzo feels sick when he checks for a pulse and realizes the light is in time with the beating of McCree’s heart.

His sharp, hiccuping breaths are too loud in his own ears. The shock of hearing himself breathe so quickly startles Hanzo into remembering that he shouldn’t be able to hear himself so clearly, that it shouldn’t be this silent.

He snaps his eyes upwards, alarmed, and meets those of the remaining four vampires, clustered around in a half-circle a dozen meters away, staring in unison at McCree’s unconscious form.

He goes cold all over at the realization that, in their eyes, McCree has gone from a hunter to be feared to nothing more than easy prey, ripe for the taking as they themselves were. One of them takes a step forward, stretching their arrogance to the breaking point, and suddenly it’s all too much to bear.

[Hot rage stirs in his blood as he reaches backward to grab his weapon. Precise fletching brushes against his fingers as he withdraws an arrow from his quiver, releasing McCree to reach for Storm Bow with his other hand.](http://mcbigbang.tumblr.com/image/177135371617) Instead of the bow’s carefully polished grip meeting his fingers, he finds his hand closing on an achingly familiar hilt, jarring enough that he almost releases it in surprise. But two more of the vampires begin to step forward as well, emboldened by McCree’s still form, and something inside Hanzo snaps.

He can find time later to agonize over why a sword came to hand. Hanzo might not be able to fix McCree, but he can fix their current situation. His spirits crackle under his skin, energized from the fight, pulsing once and requesting release. He no longer has any reason to deny them.

With a roar, his spirits taste the edge of a blade for the first time this century.

The emergence of two grinning, demonic faces rushing from the sword, intent on devouring their prey as Hanzo sweeps the blade towards them, seems to galvanize the remaining vampires, sending them scrambling over each other as they fight to dodge headstones and escape towards the far wall of the cemetery. Perhaps there’s enough left of their former selves to be rightly terrified by the sight, or they just recognize the magnitude of the danger closing the gap and bearing down on them.

Killing vampires comes so much more easily with the sword than with the bow. One strike, and their heads cleave from their necks, sending their bodies toppling to the ground. One after the other, Hanzo leaps over their felled bodies, hurtling towards the next until the last one falls and he comes to an abrupt stop. He staggers and catches himself on a headstone, leaning against it for balance.

The cemetery becomes silent again, save for his ragged breaths. No time to bury the bodies of those not touched by the sun before their deaths. They’ll all burn away to dust with the dawn, regardless, and if anyone arrives to the church before that and receives the shock of their life, it isn’t Hanzo’s problem. Once he has the energy to do so, Hanzo swipes at his dry mouth with a shaking hand and stands, making his way back to McCree.

At least McCree still has a pulse — weak, but steady. Ignoring the protests from his bruised and battered knuckles, Hanzo lifts him into his arms, refusing to sling him over his shoulder for fear it would press on the wound and aggravate his condition. The strain of carrying him in such a position immediately makes itself known, but Hanzo huffs through his tusks and sets off as fast as he can safely manage.

Hanzo’s not entirely sure what his plan is. He doesn’t recall being near a village of any mentionable size, and they’ll need a larger town to find a competent doctor. It isn’t too far to the cabin; there are horses there, and supplies for bandaging. From there, they can take the road back to the town where they stayed the night before.

He only hopes McCree can hold on until then.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo nearly breaks his stride when he hears a small sound from about the level of his chest and looks down to find McCree’s eyes slitted open.

“Where are we?” he mumbles, words slurring together.

“Almost back to the cabin now,” Hanzo says. He sounds more short of breath than he’d like, but between the effort of killing all those vampires and the frantic half-sprint here all the way from the churchyard, it’s taking more of a toll than he’s willing to admit.

McCree shakes his head desperately. “Nothing there for me. ‘Bout a mile north of — of my cabin, there’s another one. Need to be there instead.”

“We’ll get a horse, get you back to town — they must have a doctor there—”

“Closest thing to a doctor’s at the other cabin. _Please_ , Hanzo.”

Hanzo hesitates, then growls low under his breath, concern spurring him to move faster than before. He eats up the remaining few miles faster than he expects, and soon finds himself looking around an unfamiliar patch of forest, straining to see any sign of a homestead in the heavy gloom.

“Wait, wait,” McCree pants, rallying his energy to struggle to sit a little more upright in Hanzo’s grip. Hanzo slows, ready to set him down if he needs any immediate help, but McCree instead points towards a particularly gnarled, massive beech only a few paces in front of them. “Do _not_ go past that.”

With the boundary brought to his attention, Hanzo now has an apparent source of the magic that’s been steadily increasing in its scope as they approached. It’s now strong enough to crackle unpleasantly over his skin — he hates to think what it would do to him if he accidentally crossed the ward. “How do we pass the wards, then?”

In the end, there’s no better solution to getting around magic than simple volume. It certainly works in summoning the resident in question, although she looks more than a little irritated at being woken up.

“Who and what are you?” she barks, stopping well within the borders of her barrier upon seeing him. One eye is covered with a patch, but Hanzo sees the moment her remaining eye looks down and sees McCree held tightly against his chest.

“Never mind that, he needs help!” Hanzo snaps, at the same time that McCree defensively says, “He’s with me, Ana.”

Concern wars with suspicion on the woman’s face. After another look at McCree, who looks pale and faint after his outburst, she says a curt word and the oppressive magic slides off his skin as if it was never there.

Hanzo is shuffled inside so quickly that he barely gets a glimpse of the outside of the house or the cramped entryway. Though he can feel her eye biting into his back, waiting for him to step out of line and prove himself a threat, he pays no attention to it in his attempt to get McCree safely inside. It seems there are limits to what he can handle, and the sheer physicality of the fight coupled with running here with McCree in his arms has taxed his strained, sore muscles almost to that limit.

“Put him on the bed,” Ana instructs, moving aside so that Hanzo has room to maneuver past her with adequate space to prevent knocking McCree’s limp form into the doorframe. Despite his best efforts, Hanzo still subjects McCree to more than his fair share of jostling as he sets him down, less concerned with his comfort than with having him examined as quickly as possible. Even with his focus on the pressing matter of McCree’s wound, Hanzo finds himself hard-pressed to step away from the bed when he realizes that McCree is stubbornly clinging to his wrist with what little strength he has remaining, still attempting to seek him out even as his eyes glaze over with pain.

The room is simple enough; a single bed, a bare table beside it, and a locked trunk tucked against the footboard. Ana sets a lamp on the table and takes Hanzo’s place beside the bed as soon as he removes himself from McCree’s weak grip, aching at the distance he has to put between them to allow Ana to examine the wound.

The pulsing crater on McCree’s chest looks even worse under adequate lighting. Now that he has more light to view it by, Hanzo can’t help looking on in sick fascination as Ana prods at the edges and traces the black lines scrawling away from it, muttering under her breath all the while. McCree offers no complaint, barely conscious as he is, which only succeeds in worrying Hanzo more.

Whatever Ana’s attempting doesn’t seem to have any effect, and when she stands again, her face is grim. “I’ll have to consult my books for any chance of a permanent solution, but in the meantime I can make something to keep his strength up,” she says.

“Will it wake him?” Hanzo asks, brow furrowing in concern. Seeing McCree go so quickly from lucid to catatonic alarms him even more than the wound itself. He can’t help but wonder what else its effects might do to him.

For the first time since they arrived, Ana’s face softens. “He’s not too far under right now. It will wake him, and dull most of the pain so that he can bear it. You can stay with him, if you like, or come help me in the lab.”

Torn between wanting to lend assistance in any way he can and not wanting to leave McCree alone, Hanzo stays where he is, sitting on the side of the bed. McCree’s side is reassuringly warm where it rests against his hip, banishing some of the worried thoughts his still form brings to mind.

Even against the white linen of the bedsheets, McCree still looks deathly pale. Hanzo finds himself possessed with the ridiculous urge to go fetch one of the spare bandanas McCree keeps in his travel gear, to put it in its usual place and cover up some of the sickly black lines twisting over his neck and chest. Instead, he occupies himself with removing the tie McCree keeps his hair bound back with, releasing the low ponytail to alleviate any discomfort that might result from resting on top of it.

Humans have always seemed so fragile to him, and with McCree in this state…

Hanzo pockets the hair tie and wills himself to forget how extensive the webbing looks crawling across McCree’s chest. Seeing the long brown hair fanning across a pillow reminds Hanzo of the night previous, enough that he can fool himself into believing Ana will pull a solution already prepared in her storeroom so they can return to the comfortable routine of the day before.

...Perhaps not routine, considering the tentative foray beyond their usual dynamic last night. Strange, how less than a day’s time can change so much for the better, and then again for the worse. It only makes their current situation even more difficult to bear, if he spends any time thinking about it, so Hanzo finally stands and makes his way out to the entryway he only caught a glimpse of earlier, ready to offer his services if it might help the brewing go faster.

The only other room on the ground floor with the door ajar is lined with shelves built into the wall, crammed full of glass bottles and jars containing liquids of all colors. Paper labels affixed to the shelves must reveal their contents, but they’re written in a flowing script that Hanzo has no chance of reading. A stove stands in the center, and as he approaches, Hanzo sees Ana holding a match to the wood within, then shutting the front of it. Nothing in particular seems immediately ominous, but from the sheer number of oddities humming with faint magical energy gathered in the room, it’s clear that McCree has no small ally in this woman.

“Are you the alchemist he speaks so highly of, by any chance?” Hanzo asks, leaning against the doorframe. He’d rather not upset her by letting himself in uninvited.

“Does he, now?” she asks idly, starting to rifle through the pages of one of the thickest books Hanzo thinks he’s ever seen. “I would hope he hasn’t been seeing any other alchemists. And after all the work I put into helping him get his life back on track, I deserve some appreciation.”

The rustle of pages flicking past one by one as they’re inspected and rejected turns into background noise as Hanzo tries to recall what else McCree told him about the mysterious alchemist figuring so prominently in his life. Finally, through memory blurred by the presence of McCree’s thoughtful gift and easy, loose smile at the inn, he recalls why it never occurred to him to wear a human disguise on their approach to her house. “You’re — like me, are you not?”

The only answer he gets is a thoughtful hum, Ana once again distracted by the ever-thinning stack of pages she has to flip through. Curious at her lack of an answer, Hanzo begins to shift his eyesight to peer beneath the illusion, and almost immediately shuts his eyes against the visceral horror that fills him at the barest glimpse of a gaping orange maw set into a black void of a face.

With an unhappy smile, Ana closes the book with a final-sounding thump and turns to the window, ensuring that the stove is venting properly out of it as the wood inside begins to burn enough to be useful. “It’s impolite to peek, you know,” she says, voice mild but faintly scolding, and Hanzo is abruptly reminded of the night he met McCree. “The hazards of fighting — well, our kind, for so long. Sometimes you wind up as one of them. But I don’t have anyone to harm out here, even if I wished to, and my daughter and my friends visit me often and with enough puzzles for me to solve that I keep busy. That’s why Jesse built his cabin so close; he didn’t want me to get lonely. There are far worse fates than the one I’ve been dealt.”

Her voice trails off at the end, and Hanzo resolutely puts her words out of his mind as he assists with stirring the mixture in the pot while she adds the contents of various flasks to it. The final product smells foul beyond belief, but Ana looks pleased with the results as she carefully pours it through a filter into a series of small flasks. “This will help,” she says briskly, leaving the rest where they sit to carry one out of the room.

Even as stricken as he is, McCree remains aware enough to respond to simple instructions, and with Ana’s help he manages to slowly drink the entire contents of the little flask.

The potion’s effect is almost immediate. Within a minute, McCree rouses from his near-catatonic state and attempts to sit up. Considering there’s only one pillow on the bed, he doesn’t have much success in propping himself up; Hanzo and Ana share a mutually exasperated look over his head that ends with Hanzo supporting McCree with an arm behind his back while Ana goes to fetch another pillow. It seems they’re both well aware that if McCree has gotten it into his head to be upright, then it’s better to find a way that will allow him to do so without aggravating his condition.

As soon as he’s settled comfortably against the headboard, Ana wastes no time in fixing him with a glare, no less intimidating for having only one eye. “How long has this been going on?” she asks sharply.

With the collar of his shirt gaping open and no way to hide the wound any longer, McCree sighs. “Eight months, or thereabouts.”

The answer sends an unpleasant frisson down Hanzo’s spine. He was already affected when they met, then.

“And you didn’t come to me _then_? Especially with her involved?” Ana’s face twists in displeasure and she half-turns away from the bed, muttering under her breath. Hanzo doesn’t understand the language she speaks in, but he can hazard a guess as to what she’s saying.

More interesting is the implication that Ana might know what’s happening to McCree. Hanzo sits straighter on the edge of the bed, feeling a small bit of hope for the first time since he saw the mark on McCree’s chest. “Do you know who did this to him? I assumed it was something to do with — what he does, when he’s hunting.”

He doesn’t know how better to describe it. After an initial polite but firm refusal to explain what exactly he does when he harnesses the sun to guide his bullets, Hanzo recognized a sensitive topic and asked no further for the sake of a harmonious partnership. He of all people knows the importance of secrets, even those so visibly kept that they’re used to clear a field.

From the bed, McCree grumbles, “It’s to do with the huntin’ part, sure.”

Both Ana and Hanzo ignore him. “No, that has nothing to do with it. He’s always had a bounty, due to the nature of his work, but it’s grown a lot in the past few years. You wouldn’t believe the price on his head as it stands now,” Ana remarks dryly. “It’s high enough that even my attempts to...dissuade those who go searching for him are becoming less successful. No matter how risky it is to try to catch him, the potential reward is worth it.”

“You don’t have to do that,” McCree rasps, rolling his eyes. “It’s not as bad as she tells it,” he says to Hanzo.

Ana whirls around and narrows her eye at him. “I have had _four_ beings come to me in the last year, asking if I would like to add to the reward in case I became the next target on your list. Four! You’re lucky I got rid of them then and there, or else your bounty would be even higher than it already is.”

“Still high enough to attract the wrong kind of attention,” McCree grouses. “Can’t imagine what other reason there’d be for this.”

“So you both know who did this,” Hanzo says crisply. “I would appreciate if someone would enlighten me.”

Ana and McCree share a look, but it’s Ana who speaks up. “Jesse, get some rest,” she says, and McCree nods without a word of complaint. She turns to Hanzo. “We can go talk in my laboratory.”

 

* * *

 

_A huntress_ , she said. One who specializes in poison, packaging it into nasty little traps, although the magical component to McCree’s affliction sounds like it’s new to her repertoire. So powerful in its onslaught against McCree’s life, it’s as if the magic came from someone else with much more experience.

Hanzo would laugh, if he didn’t feel so utterly hollow inside.

Of course it would be them. First they drove Hanzo to seek out protection from their incessant requests, and now that he’s found happiness with his chosen company, they’ve arrived to steal it away again. It’s all the more cruel that their motivation appears to primarily be the price on McCree’s head.

Hanzo has no intention of letting them succeed, for McCree’s sake as well as his own. He just...needs some time to himself to figure out the best option for denying them what they want.

In the meantime, the sounds of the forest surround him as he sits on the rear entryway of the house, helping to settle his churning thoughts. Thoughts of his time in exile have done nothing but agitate him these last few months; finding himself in good company has made him realize just how agonizing those years alone truly were, but the familiarity of the wavering drone of distant frogs and the rustle of leaves brushing against each other are soothing in their own right, regardless of the memories of his time alone that they bring to mind.

Head clear, Hanzo picks himself up from the step and brushes off a few pine needles that cling, sticky with sap, to the white silk of his gi. He hears the distant rumble of heated voices once he steps back inside, but makes it halfway down the hall before he realizes it’s an argument and retreats, politely trying to ignore what’s being said for privacy’s sake.

Still, he has a clear view through the door, and it’s hard not to satiate his curiosity by looking inside.

McCree’s hands fumble their way along the chain around his neck, undoing the clasp with a great amount of effort. When it’s finally loose, he holds it out; concerned, Ana reaches out to steady him, and he deposits the amulet into her palm, pushing her hand closer towards her.

All Hanzo can see of their conversation is that it appears to turn sour; McCree seems to be insisting something, while Ana shakes her head. Finally, she pats his arm and sets the amulet down on the bedside table despite McCree’s protests before leaving the room, brushing by Hanzo as she goes. “I’m going to look through more of my books, see what I have on hand,” Ana tells him, her words belied by her bleak tone. She must not have any further ideas, then.

Uncertain how severe the disagreement is and what mood he’ll find McCree in, Hanzo approaches the bed cautiously, taking care to make just enough noise that McCree can hear him coming and tell him to leave, if he so chooses.

But as soon as McCree sees him, the tense look on his face softens into something more inviting, so Hanzo takes a chance and sits on the edge of the bed again. “Hey,” McCree murmurs warmly. “Was wonderin’ why you didn’t come back with Ana.”

Hanzo adds a stab of guilt to his roiling emotions. “I stepped outside to clear my head. How are you feeling?” He realizes too late how pointless the question must sound, and grimaces. “Is the potion helping?”

“Think so. I’m awake, aren’t I?” The corner of McCree’s mouth turns up into an encouraging smile that looks out of place on his wan features. “Couldn’t say that much before, that’s for sure. Don’t feel like I’m half a second away from droppin’ off anymore.”

“And the pain?”

There’s barely a second of hesitation, but it allows Hanzo to see the lie for what it is. “Can’t feel a thing out of place.”

“Do you want me to ask Ana if she has anything else for it?” Hanzo asks. If McCree’s trying to lie to him, it must mean he has something to hide. Hanzo doesn’t want to know what amount of pain McCree considers worth concealing.

“I’ve gotten used to it, to be honest,” McCree admits. “Wasn’t this bad before, but it always seemed worse after a fight. Must’ve pushed it past the breakin’ point just now, usin’ too much magic at once. That draught she gave me brought it back down to the level I’m used to.”

Hanzo feels abruptly sick, knowing that McCree’s been dealing with this for long enough to not be concerned by it. He’ll bellyache all day at the slightest of inconveniences — he once nearly drove Hanzo to insanity over a splinter he couldn’t seem to get out of his palm — but it’s when he doesn’t say anything that Hanzo knows to be worried.

“I’ll go ask,” he says decisively. At least it’ll give him the illusion of usefulness.

As he turns to move away from the bed, a hand catches his wrist. McCree’s grip is weak, but his gaze is steady when Hanzo turns back to look at him in confusion. “Just send Ana back in, will you? I’ll ask her again to make you a charm.”

Baffled, Hanzo says, “I’m not the one who’s ill—”

“A protection charm,” McCree interrupts. “Like the one I have. Mine’ll stop workin’ soon enough, but I’ll ask her one last favor so you can stay hidden.”

The implication of what McCree is offering hits Hanzo like a physical blow, and he jerks his hand roughly from McCree’s grip. “Yours will do well enough for both of us.”

“The magic on it will be gone soon. I’m gonna be gone soon.” McCree sounds desperate, even as he has to pause to catch his breath. “I don’t want you gettin’ caught by the same folks because I went and got myself poisoned.”

Hanzo sets his jaw, then carefully takes McCree’s hand in his own again, the dark gray of his skin swallowed up by the orange glow of his prosthetic arm. “You will not be _gone_ for many more years, if I can help it,” he says firmly. McCree’s expression remains unchanged, and Hanzo tightens his grip on the metal, needing him to understand. Even though the amulet is what drove him to keep McCree’s company in the first place, he refuses to consider the possibility that he might fail. The consequences are far too dire for him to allow it.

“I’m going to go see if Ana has found anything to help. Will you rest while I go talk to her?”

There’s a displeased twist to McCree’s mouth, but he nods anyway.

When he reaches the laboratory once again, Hanzo pushes the door open further, asking, “Do you have—”

He stops when he sees Ana leaning against one of the shelves, head bowed and arms crossed close to her chest, seemingly only keeping herself upright out of force of will as she curls into herself. There’s a trail of moisture glistening down one cheek, and when her red-rimmed eye meets his, Hanzo knows what will come next.

“He’s far beyond any help I could give him.” Ana looks pained as she admits it. “I can neutralize just enough of the magic in his blood to ease some of the pain, although my potions will become less effective as it advances. But as for a cure—” She sighs heavily, grief etched into every wrinkled line of her face.

“There must be something that can cure this — someone—”

Ana sighs. “Short of transforming him into one of the creatures he hunts or selling his soul to a witch, I don’t think there is any cure. The huntress that did this is particularly cruel. She didn’t craft a poison and imbue it with magic with the goal of allowing him to survive it.”

Such a thing is unacceptable. Surely there must—

Hanzo pauses, considers. As a demon, he has the ability to get any number of things coveted by mortals.

Surely souls aren’t the only currency witches accept.

“Did you have any particular witches in mind?” he asks.

 

* * *

 

Morning comes slower than either of them would like. McCree’s condition hasn’t worsened to the point of unconsciousness again, fortunately, but neither Ana nor Hanzo feel comfortable delaying their departure any further. As soon as the first hints of sunlight become visible, Hanzo returns to McCree’s cabin and leads one of the horses back to Ana’s, hoping that it will shave enough time off the trip to find the witch to make a difference. When he returns, he finds Ana has already packed a saddlebag with her remaining store of potions to help with the pain, thickly cushioned with stray scraps of fabric separating the glass bottles. It’ll have to do.

They meet surprisingly little resistance from McCree when Ana tells him their plan. “‘S dangerous, but if both of you think it’s worth tryin’, we can try it,” he says, sounding tired. His eyes look huge in his drawn face when he looks at Hanzo. “So long as I don’t wind up as something other than human, and you don’t trade away anythin’ too important, I don’t mind. Worst thing that’ll happen is I die out under the sky.”

Hanzo vows not to let that happen.

Before they leave, Hanzo belatedly remembers to slip the hunting glove on over McCree’s prosthetic, hiding its distinctive glow. Though the huntress tracking him might not have magical means at their disposal, it doesn’t mean she won’t be searching through the woods.

A more difficult concession comes when Hanzo fails to replace McCree’s hat on his head as he carries him out of Ana’s guest room. “I’ll keep it safe for you, Jesse,” she says over his protests, face pinched as she watches them leave. No amount of explaining that he wants to travel light to avoid tiring the horse will stop McCree from fussing incessantly over going without his hat, so Hanzo tightens his grip around McCree’s waist and urges the horse on, trying to block out his voluble complaints.

McCree’s chatter dies down as the potion wears off and his strength wanes, leaving Hanzo with the same quiet as their trip to the hunting cabin. Considering the circumstances behind his silence, Hanzo again finds himself uncomfortable with it after becoming so accustomed to friendly ribbing during travel.

The trail ahead of them stays clear of any other travelers for the next several hours, and with Hanzo’s sensitive hearing attuned to anything out of place in the forest surrounding the road, he feels safe enough to ask the question that’s been bothering him since Ana’s cabin. “You knew you were poisoned when we met, didn’t you?”

McCree sighs, shifting guiltily in the saddle. “I did,” he admits, voice quiet.

“Why did you take on a hunting partner instead of seeking help for it? And why did you not tell me about it, after a time?” Hanzo asks, frustration coloring his voice.

“The huntress who made it isn’t the kind to make many errors. Figured I was dead the minute I got back from a hunt and saw the first sign of it on me. I didn’t know how to tell you. Didn’t know how long I had left, either, but you’ve seen how nearly every town we come across has troubles with some kind of creature or another. The problem’s just gettin’ worse. I needed to find someone to replace me, when the time comes.”

“And you thought a _demon_ was a good choice?” Despite the dire situation, Hanzo has to suppress a delirious laugh.

“I’d heard about you before, you know. Just rumors. Suppose they were accurate enough, from what I’ve seen you do with that tattoo of yours.”

The change in topic is enough to sober Hanzo’s mood again, and he scowls around his lengthening tusks as he nudges the horse into a faster pace.

“I remember how desperate I was to do some good when I was offered the chance,” McCree mutters, shifting his head to rest on Hanzo’s other shoulder. “You were the first one I went to because word got out you were lookin’ for protection, sure. But I thought the work might be as good for you as you’d be for the work.”

McCree sounds out of breath as he trails off. Tightening his one-armed grip around McCree’s waist, Hanzo asks, “Do you know how long I stayed in the same miserable patch of forest before we met?”

“‘M gonna guess it was a while.”

It takes him a moment to think back far enough for an accurate estimate. “Roughly eighty years, give or take. Before that, more than two hundred years at our family’s compound, taking offerings given by villagers and pilgrims out of fear.”

That startles a small, surprised noise from McCree. “Never knew you were that old.”

Hanzo lets out another small laugh, despite the circumstances. “Did I never tell you? Well, in any case.” He takes a hand off the reins, tucking a loose strand of McCree’s hair behind his ear, unaccustomed to seeing it free rather than bound low and crammed underneath the ever-present hat. “ _You_ are what has been good for me. I hunted bounties in a similar fashion as this before, but never consistently, and not for any reason other than the challenge. I didn’t care about the people they hurt — how could I, when I couldn’t bring myself to move among humans at all?”

“You really never talked to people? In all that time?”

“Would you, if you knew you might be hunted for it?” Hanzo counters. “After so much time alone, I was afraid I might stand out and attract the wrong kind of attention.”

Although… “There were many changes to adapt to, when I left my home and came here. Truthfully, I was just afraid.” Of himself, of the terrible rage roiling under his skin at times, and of how wholeheartedly he believed he deserved to live out the rest of his life in isolation.

“You didn’t seem nervous around Ana. Never really seemed nervous around me, either,” McCree points out

“I do not get _nervous_ around humans,” Hanzo clarifies, voice imperious. “I am, however, sensibly wary until they’ve proven they’re not inclined to start a second career in hunting my kind.”

“That’s literally what I do, you know.”

Hanzo finally gives in to the impulse to press a kiss to the vulnerable patch of skin under McCree’s ear, unable to resist any longer with it on display with McCree cradled against him. He tries to ignore the soft, tired hum he gets in response. “You came to me offering protection. I had reason to give you a chance until you proved you did not intend to fulfill your end of the bargain. Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.”

McCree lets out a humorless chuckle. “Fortunate, yeah. I’ve had a lot of luck in meetin’ good people in my life, and I had a bit of an inklin’ at the time that you might be another one of them. I was glad to find out I was right.”

The memory of that quiet moment back in the hunting cabin comes rushing back at that. It’s almost too much to bear, and Hanzo holds McCree tighter to his chest rather than saying anything that might be unwise.

Hanzo fully intends on having that promised talk, after McCree recovers. He’ll do everything in his power to ensure he does.

As it turns out, he doesn’t have to prevent himself from saying anything he shouldn’t for long. McCree lapses into silence again only a few hours later, with only Hanzo’s arm around him keeping him from toppling right off the horse. At their pace, Hanzo estimates they have another ten hours or so until they cross the Swiss border and, not long after that, arrive where Ana last encountered the witch.

He hopes it’s soon enough to make a difference.

 

* * *

 

As soon as the horse’s hooves touch the ground on the far side of a quaint wooden bridge crossing the river, Hanzo feels magic prickling at his skin, cloying and intrusive. For it to be as noxious as it is, it must be sunk into every inch of their surroundings, and done by a powerful caster.

Ana said that he’d know when they arrived in the right place. Hanzo’s inclined to believe her.

Fortunately, it isn’t too far — with the faster pace Hanzo set after McCree lost the ability to speak in full sentences without having to pause, they arrive at a small clearing only a few minutes later. Hanzo takes care to stop the horse before they cross the boundary of the clearing’s edge, not wanting McCree involved if the witch is dishonest in her bargaining methods.

He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she isn’t. At this point, there aren’t many other options that can halt the poison in time.

It takes some effort to slip off the horse while ensuring McCree stays upright in the saddle, and then to carefully, carefully pull him down from it. Try as he might, the jostling wakes McCree as he sets him near the base of a wide, shaded elm, propping him up among the roots.

As soon as McCree registers being awake, his mouth warps into a familiar grimace. Hanzo rushes to get one of the few remaining potions from the saddlebag and helps tip it down McCree’s throat. He can’t imagine it’s doing more than taking the edge off at this point, and that only strengthens Hanzo’s resolve to do whatever he must to convince the witch to help.

“Will you be alright here, if I leave you for a few minutes?” Hanzo asks.

There’s a long enough pause that Hanzo starts to wonder if McCree is even coherent any longer. He’s been in and out of consciousness — mostly out — for nearly half a day. As much as it worries him, it’s almost preferable to seeing his discomfort when he is awake.

A nod, and then McCree’s head tips forward to rest heavily against Hanzo’s. Hanzo doesn’t mind, except that it hurts to see him this weakened — McCree can’t even open his eyes more than halfway, fighting against the exhaustion that’s apparent in every line of his face. Hanzo’s too afraid to look beneath the loose shirt and check how much the poison has spread since the last time he saw it.

“Just don’t bargain away more’n I’m worth,” McCree says, voice thin.

Despite himself, the barest edge of Hanzo’s lips curl into a faint smile, and he pulls away to press a firm kiss to McCree’s forehead where his own rested. “I will not,” he murmurs, completely confident in his assertion. He can’t think of much that would be worth more to him than McCree’s life.

With McCree settled, Hanzo stands and walks away swiftly, heading for the structure he can see outlined through the trees. If he were human, the twilight might make it difficult to navigate unscathed across the scattered roots that thrust out of the ground, but Hanzo moves confidently, readying himself mentally for the task of bargaining.

He doesn’t want the witch to see how desperate he is, for fear she might be the kind to deny his request just to toy with him.

A tidy, cheerful yellow house stands in the middle of the clearing, surrounded by pretty rose bushes in full bloom. But Hanzo knows better than most how looks can be deceiving, even if the presence of such bountiful plant life under the cover of forest hadn’t clued him in, and so he waits a good twenty paces away from the front door, hands held loosely at his sides, careful to project the illusion of patiently waiting for an audience. Just as he’s starting to consider approaching, for the sake of not letting time and the poison render this conversation irrelevant, the door swings open a few inches.

It’s immediately obvious that he’s in the right place, based on her mode of dress. Only the truly powerful arcane casters stay isolated enough from humankind to walk around in apparel that practically announces their nature, relying on their skill and reclusive nature to keep them safe from any witch hunts. She has a wary look on her face, but cocks her head curiously when she takes in his appearance, apparently not accustomed to demons showing up on her doorstep. “Are you here to offer something that will help me, or to ask me to help you? Those are the only two kinds of visitors I seem to get, these days.”

Hanzo grits his teeth at the phrasing, at how it’s intended to put him on the wrong foot at the start of their negotiations. “I come to offer an exchange of services,” he says smoothly, refusing to show how rattled he is from the long journey. “My end is flexible — I can acquire any number of infernal substances to be used in powerful spells, if that is what you wish, or can grant you favor in the fiendish courts. On yours, however, I would request a cure for the cursed poison that plagues the human I brought with me.”

“Ah.” The witch considers him for a moment, gaze calmly assessing, before she nods. “Simple enough, then.”

Hanzo waits.

“I think you can guess my price,” she says, voice kind. “If you want to save a soul, you must provide one in return.”

Helpless frustration wells in Hanzo’s chest as he realizes she’s asking for something impossible. “I don’t—”

“I’m aware you don’t have one, strictly speaking,” the witch says dismissively. “I have no interest in yours, anyway. Perhaps I should say — a spirit for his soul?”

The witch’s gaze is fixed on his exposed tattoo, eyes glinting with curiosity. Hanzo can practically see the itch she possesses to have that magic for herself, to unravel the secrets of how his family took the spirits into themselves for future use.

“Not if you don’t intend to treat them with the respect they deserve,” he says hotly, offended at the idea of the only remaining essence of his family twisted to serve the whims of a witch.

One of her shoulders lifts in a shrug. “I don’t intend to _destroy_ it. Just...study it. I can see how fractured it is from here, but it still looks so vibrant.”

There’s an angry flare of searing heat under his skin as he considers it for a brief moment. He should feel lucky the price is something he can afford to give, and that the intensity of her desire for the spirits puts them on even ground in the exchange. He has no more family to judge him, and as much as it stings his pride to give up the burden he bears, Hanzo knows there’s no bargaining with a witch when she’s already decided exactly what she wants.

Although—

Looking her directly in the eye, refusing to flinch away, Hanzo replies: “Will you accept the second in exchange for another favor?”

 

* * *

 

Hanzo scarcely notices the huntress’s arrival, all of his focus taken up by watching the slow return of color to McCree’s cheeks as his breathing becomes steadier. Still not fully conscious, not yet; Hanzo gave him the last of Ana’s concoctions after the witch left them to go wait out front, so it’s only a matter of time until he recovers enough to regain his faculties.

After the past day and a half spent watching him rapidly decline, Hanzo only hopes it will be a _short_ time.

The raw wound on McCree’s chest pulses a bright and vicious red again, just once, startling Hanzo enough to look across the clearing in alarm, ready to call for the witch’s aid — when he sees the witch is no longer alone.

A lithe woman towers in front of the witch, only a few paces away from her. It’s too far to make out details, but although she appears human, there’s a sallow, translucent look to her skin that raises Hanzo’s suspicion, as does the metal helmet covering her hair. _Something_ is off about her, and although Hanzo doesn’t know what, his discomfort grows the longer she talks with the witch. He can only think of one person the witch would summon at a time like this.

Hanzo doesn’t realize his hands have dug into McCree’s arm until there’s a choked gasp from below. Unclenching his fists, he tears his gaze away from the woman against every instinct that tells him to keep her in his sights.

When he looks down, he’s treated to the sight of tired brown eyes looking hazily up at him.

“Did you already talk to her?” McCree whispers.

As soon as he speaks, the strange woman snaps her head in their direction. The bulky contraption on her head swings down over her eyes, a red beam of light emerging from it to cut in their direction.

The wound on McCree’s chest pulses again, and Hanzo’s eyes flash flinty white as he attempts to keep control of his form. As much as he instinctively feels the need to bulk out to his full size, it won’t do any good to play his hand so early around the huntress. Still, he curls over McCree to shield him from the huntress’s gaze, even when the witch says something that regains her full attention.

Now that he knows who precisely stands in front of the witch, Hanzo takes some of his focus off McCree to listen in on their conversation. If his request to the witch fails and he has to hunt down the huntress in the future, he’d rather have as much information as he can possibly glean about her.

“The terms are simple enough, Amélie,” the witch says coolly, apparently with no qualms about informing a killer-for-hire what she is and is not allowed to do anymore. “You and your organization will not interfere with either of them, nor any of their associates, ever again. I don’t quite see why you’re having trouble understanding this. The price on his head isn’t high enough to risk your peace with me, surely?”

The response comes whisper-quiet, enough that even Hanzo can’t hear what she says.

“If you think otherwise, you’re welcome to try. However, I will remind you that you left behind _quite_ a volume of material when I performed the transformation for you.” The witch is starting to sound almost bored, now, and it puts Hanzo on edge. “Drider parts are quite useful in ritual magic, but not so much that I’ve used up the entire supply. It was very thoughtful of you to leave so much for me.”

The witch pauses, and then smiles indulgently. “I know it’s been quite a while since you became human, so I don’t blame you for forgetting. But that reminds me — how is dear Gérard?”

A long line of black snaps out of the huntress’s wrist, and she vanishes into the treetops as if she were never there.

 

* * *

 

Enough of McCree’s strength has returned over the course of the ride that he’s able to make it off the horse and through the door under his own power, but only just; he’s leaning heavily against Hanzo’s shoulder by the time they’re halfway across the small cabin. Hanzo tips McCree into bed, rather indelicately, and waits for him to roll over and make space of his own accord before he crawls in beside him, utterly exhausted.

Considering the stress of the ordeal, Hanzo is hardly surprised when he finally wakes to midday sun streaming in through the sole window on the other side of the cabin. Next to him, McCree still sleeps deeply, although the shadows under his eyes look much less pronounced. Hanzo begins the slow process of untangling his limbs from McCree’s without waking him and then rolls out of bed, intent on finishing some tasks he wants to get done before McCree wakes.

By the time Hanzo feels the bed shift and sees the first flutter of lashes, it’s nearly dusk again, but he waits patiently and lets McCree wake up in his own time.

The curve of McCree’s tired smile when he opens his eyes and sees Hanzo makes his breath catch in his chest, suddenly struck with the knowledge of how close he came to never being able to see it again. “Still feeling better?”

“Feel like I’ve been sittin’ on a horse for two days straight,” McCree points out, sounding amused. “Other’n that, I feel better than I have in months.”

Hanzo carefully gathers up the freshly-washed gi in his lap and sets it aside to finish mending its torn seam later. “There are some important things I need to tell you. If you’d like, we can leave it for tomorrow, but…”

McCree sighs. “No, I’d rather know sooner rather than later.” Abruptly, he looks around and then plucks his shirt away from his chest. Wrinkling his nose, McCree says, “Let me go freshen up first. I want to hear what’s goin’ on, but I don’t want to smell of my deathbed while I listen.”

As Hanzo expects, McCree takes quite a while in the room that houses the small bathtub; after all the time they spent on the road, it’s a necessity to remove all the accumulated grime. In the meantime, he finishes repairing the ripped seam, determines it strong enough to hold for future use, and places it with the rest of his gear, returning with a clean set of blankets for the bed.

By the time McCree reemerges, Hanzo’s just finished neatly packing away the contents of his sewing kit. He sets it aside as McCree sits back down, facing Hanzo, mirroring his cross-legged posture.

“First of all, I spoke with Ana,” Hanzo says, carding a hand through McCree’s long hair, curling the ends around a finger. He’s decided he quite likes it loose of its tie. “She’ll be by tomorrow, to ensure the wound is healing as well as it should. We’ll rest as long as you need — Ana offered to let us stay with her, if you’d prefer the company.”

“I like this company just fine,” McCree says roughly, gaze heavy with intent where it rests on Hanzo.

For his part, Hanzo can no longer resist the temptation of having him so close, not after days of having him closer still. He leans forward and noses along the corner of McCree’s jaw, sweeps past the wild tangle of beard to land at the corner of his mouth.

Their lips brush, and although Hanzo only means for it to be brief, it seems McCree has other ideas. He chases after Hanzo, seals their mouths together, and despite his intention to tell McCree everything all at once, Hanzo can’t bring himself to protest the interruption. All of the uncertainty of the last several days bleeds out into the kiss, his relief so palpable it nearly leaves him lightheaded.

Until McCree breaks away abruptly and Hanzo’s head tips slightly forward with a weight he didn’t realize was there, only catching himself at the last second to avoid hitting McCree’s head with his own. Hanzo flushes a darker gray, but McCree doesn’t seem fazed by the sudden appearance of his horns, doesn’t necessarily seem to know the extent of emotion behind their sudden appearance.

McCree quirks a smile as drags a hand down Hanzo’s neck. “You’ll have to tell me if I’m down a soul now,” he murmurs against the skin there. “I’m feelin’ just fine so far, but you never know.”

“I didn’t know you thought so poorly of my skill at bargaining,” Hanzo says dryly, trying not to become too distracted. He suspects he’s failing. “But no, she never even asked for anything from you.”

“Really, now?” It’s becoming more and more difficult to remember what he had to say, with McCree’s hand slipping under fabric and smoothing down the slope of his shoulder. “Then what — Hanzo?”

The uncertain note in McCree’s voice gives him pause, and Hanzo looks down to see his gi parted enough to reveal the large, bare patch of skin below. “ _That_ is what she asked for,” he says quietly, still unaccustomed to seeing all that empty space. “The tattoo was part of the binding ritual. When she took the spirits from me, it disappeared along with them.”

McCree can’t seem to tear his gaze away from the bare skin, and the set of his mouth tells Hanzo that McCree isn’t quite ready to drop the subject. “I told you not to give up anythin’ important.”

“Not too important for what I received in return.”

McCree looks at him questioningly.

“The witch didn’t just remove the poison and the curse from you. She also forbade the huntress and any of her associates from bothering us ever again.” Hanzo savors the wide-eyed look of relief on McCree’s face. “And since the spirits are no longer bound to me at all, she doesn’t retain anything that can be used against either of us. _That_ is why I agreed to trade them.”

“Oh.”

“I told you it was a good deal,” Hanzo says, feeling rather smug.

“Free and clear of ‘em, huh? Sounds like our job might be gettin’ a bit easier.”

Hanzo’s inclined to agree, even though he realizes it will take some time before he loses the instinct to reach for the spirits in times of need. As painful as it is to no longer feel their energy held deep within the core of himself, having that connection cut off also feels freeing. Those last bonds shackling him to his origins have always threatened to drag him down into the shame of it.

With their severance, Hanzo thinks the burden of his past might begin to feel lighter.

He lowers his head to rest against the curve of McCree’s shoulder, horns brushing skin no longer marred by poison. “We can only hope.”

**Author's Note:**

> _Archer: What difference is there between the witch’s magic and your alchemy?  
>  Alchemist: Alchemy is a science. Her magic is something darker. _
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> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is very appreciated! 
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